


the cantor set

by dearcecil



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Episode: s03e13 The Wrath of the Lamb, Innuendo, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-30
Updated: 2020-07-29
Packaged: 2021-03-05 22:22:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,182
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25602754
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dearcecil/pseuds/dearcecil
Summary: every infinity is different, and some infinities are bigger than others.
Relationships: Will Graham & Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 5
Kudos: 8





	the cantor set

**Author's Note:**

> (what's the cardinality of hannibal's shattered teacup set?)

The blood really does look black in the moonlight. Hannibal is a glistening vision, bathed in that black-seeming blood, as radiant and consuming as he's ever been inside of Will's mind: The dark truth sheltered inside of him, the transformative beast that's always dwelt just beneath his skin, has seeped to the surface. Swallowed him all up. Anyone who wandered by right now could learn him, he's that naked.

Will can't help but reach out a hand to him. That's the same as ever, too — it seems as though his whole life, for years now, has been one long and painful stretch. There just hasn't been anything to make contact with 'til tonight. It burns, but when Will is touching Hannibal he can admit how good it feels to burn. Sometimes it's what a body needs.

"This is all I ever wanted for you, Will." Hannibal can barely catch his breath. He has been shot, after all, because Will stood there and watched the dragon creep closer. Because he wanted to see what would happen. Because Hannibal's 'inconvenient compassion' means he'll give Will whatever he wants. (This all feels good, too. He can admit that now.)

"...for both of us," Hannibal adds, as if he even needs to clarify. Will's known for ages that he and Hannibal, in the man's ideal world, are meant to be a package deal. ('Murder husbands,' Freddie'd called them.) God, he can't stop staring at Hannibal's mouth, slick with blood from when he tore Dolarhyde's throat out— So easy to imagine the taste of his lips: The same flavor pouring out of Will's sliced cheek, pooling in the back of his mouth with every galloping heartbeat. Rich, salty bursts, an experience not dissimilar to eating the ortolan Hannibal once served him; only he's not nervous anymore, not at all opposed to swallowing it all down. The same flavor as when he sank his teeth into Cordell, too. All the talk he's been immersed in lately, of great, devouring beasts... it puts Will right in the mind of a rabid dog, or perhaps one that's been allowed to go wild. He wonders if he would still spit out the meat, or if he'd like it now. Just let it slide, hot and solid, down his throat.

He laughs. Again, he can't help but do it. Couldn't keep the laughter in if he tried (not that he's ever been much for trying; he knows it's one of his many faults). Hannibal always gets him feeling powerfully helpless like that, always makes him want to laugh. "It's beautiful," Will admits. He knows Hannibal can tell he isn't just talking about them slaying the dragon together. The two of them have forever been looking through to the back of each other's skulls.

It feels so good to hold Hannibal; to be held by him; to feel the warmth pouring out of his body, draining through that little hole in his stomach, leaking from his touch-starved pores. Hannibal twists his neck, nuzzles Will, just as out-of-his-mind animalistic as he is. Nobody's held him like this in years, or maybe not in his entire life. Will's not quite certain who that thought is for: Himself, or Hannibal? It's true either way. Nobody's been allowed to be this close to either of them. Will can't imagine anyone deserving it.

He puts his arm around Hannibal to pull him in tighter, another instinct he's never been able to reject, not even when Hannibal was slicing him open in kitchen. (That felt good, too, before... the rest of it. Just as warm as this moment. Will can admit a lot of things, at least to himself, when he spends time with Hannibal.)

There's so much clarity, despite the dark. Will is used to making his way through it alone, but he becomes a sharper version of himself with Hannibal and everyone knows it. His mind feels like a storm, raining down each memory shared between them, over and between all that's happening in the present, in this unbelievably real moment: Being carried by Hannibal, petted like he's not the sort of animal that's too dangerous to touch; solving puzzles, _hunting_ together, going in for the kill; being offered gifts he wanted but wouldn't let himself need.

Most of the day has switched between feeling too fast or too slow. Flashes of lightning, tailed by the tension of waiting for the thunder, counting the seconds like a strange prayer. Now every little scene is scattering across the surface of him until he feels bathed in it. The ocean beneath them rolls against the bluff, as soft and steady as Hannibal's slowing breaths, and Will thinks about the stream, and about how Hannibal promised he'd give it to him. Thinks about the beautiful river of blood Hannibal let him spill tonight. Feels powerfully helpless.

"You worry too much," Hannibal told him in one of those slow moments. He'd been so bright and clean and covered. "You'd be much more comfortable if you relaxed with yourself."

Will wants everything Hannibal has on offer. (He can admit things like this now.) He can relax around him. (He can admit that he doesn't care if it's safe.)

Tucking his lacerated face into Hannibal's shoulder feels better than anything.

...Bedelia called him 'righteous, reckless,' and 'twitchy.' Will's not twitching now — he's swaying. They're swaying. And he doesn't feel reckless, either: He never feels reckless when he's mixing himself with the strong, sturdy material Hannibal's made out of. He does feel righteous, though. In fact, he feels almost... helplessly powerful. His eyes are wide open. Every moment of rest he imagined he'd achieved before is nothing compared to this; Hannibal was right, life is much more comfortable this way.

They sway straight over the edge together.

Feet off the ground, suspended in time, but Will's not tense and he's not counting. He couldn't give a damn about the thunder, the crash, or the useless prayer against a God who loves destruction. The only real thing is Hannibal's heartbeat racing against his own. (He can admit that he wants to feel that forever.) It doesn't matter if the teacup he and Hannibal have molded together, burnished by their journey through the inferno, shatters or not. (Although he can admit how good it would sound.) The air whips at his skin, and the deep, salt-heavy scent of blood is layered over, amplified by the sea. (He's always loved this taste.)

Will has always had to force a personal steadiness, to make himself as immovable as he could be, in spite of everybody that tried to bend him without knowing him. It feels so nice to let himself be moved. To be making his way through the vast, dark nothing with Hannibal pressed against him. (As good as plunging into the stream. Will loves that he can depend on Hannibal's promises to be realized. He loves the idea that his dreams, be they violent or be they tender, might be realized too.)

The spray of the ocean feels the same as the spray of the rain.


End file.
